


Lonely and Gone

by jellyfishandtuna



Series: Small Little Painful Nothings [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comfort, Death, Father/Daughter love, Grief, Loss, Love, M/M, Pain, Promises, parent/children - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 21:17:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1279162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyfishandtuna/pseuds/jellyfishandtuna





	Lonely and Gone

**'Coulda heard a tear drop,**  
 **Coulda heard a heart break,**  
 **Never saw the flood come,**  
 **Even though I felt the rain,**  
 **Never heard a house sound,**  
 **So loud with memories,**  
 **Where there use to be a happy home'**

The distance echoes of mirth are no more. The cheerful voices no longer rise and fall with conversation. The dust, the silence have all but overtook this once bright flat. (Well, there isn't that much dust.) Just by walking through the black door with a knocker and the address 221B stamped on it with gold lettering, this use to be a happy place. Now, it's lonely and everyone is gone.

You can still see Mr. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, his tall frame taking up most of the window that look's out over the busy street. Slender, bony digits work at the strings and bow of his violin. Making the sweetest music your ears have ever heard. It pulls at your heart, making even the most heartless of men want to weep. It's intimating watching this man, but angelic. Peaceful.

Sitting in the chair in front of the fire place, most likely with a Union Jack pillow behind him is Dr. John Watson. Captain in her Majesty Royal Army. Eyes closed lazily at this point, tea in his hand forgotten, listening to my Father play. That one cream colored jumper; repaired, replaced to many times that neither of them could remember. Both men happy. Happy in out little home.

My name is Cynzia Eros (Greek God for love. It was Father's idea.) Watson-Holmes. I am proud to call these men my parents and this is my blog entry.

I was told that I was a test tube baby. Dad (John) would always scold Father for saying that but I was intelligent enough to know he was teasing, even at an early stage. It wasn't until years later I discovered who my birth Mother was. A woman by the name of Mary Mostan. I remember that she was never around. Dad had told me that she had to go into Witness Protection after I was born. Father told me that she was just dead. Thus getting another scolding. Father would sulk until Dad came round, wrapping his arms around his slender waist and kissing him lightly. Then all would be better.

Dad was older than Father. How many years now, I can't quite remember, but it never slowed him down. Even until the end.

**'Turn down the lights,**  
 **Turn down the bed,**  
 **Turn down these voices,**  
 **Inside my head,**  
 **Lay down with me,**  
 **Tell me no lies,**  
 **Just hold me close,**  
 **Don't patronize'**

Father wasn't himself. I remember that. I was 17, studying in the living room for my Uni examine. I remember a long time ago that Dad said he wanted to die at home. At the time, I didn't want to think about it. Even writing this blog, I still don't. A weak heart. After all this time, it was failing him.

Father's bedroom door opens, his blue dressing gown flowing behind him like Batman's cape. Yawning with a hand running through his graying dark curls. He sweeps over to me, kissing my forehead.

"Good morning, Cy."

I just smile. There's a sadness to his baritone voice these days. I don't ask. Father makes himself coffee. Dad a cup of decaf tea. Mine is sitting in front of me so he doesn't ask. He retreats with the tea back into the bedroom. I can hear the conversation but I dare not move.

"Good morning, John."

"Mmm."

"I brought you tea."

He's slipping a little everyday. More weak as the minutes pass. The only thing he allowed was the oxygen and even that was a battle.

"Thank you, love."

I would be lying if I said I don't miss my Dad, but the memories I'm left with are nothing but fond.

"Get me out of this bed, please."

And Father does. One hand on the small of Dad's back, the other has their fingers laced tight together, helping him to his chair by the warm fire. The tea quickly retrieved and sat at the table beside him.

"How are the studies?"

Even in this state, Dad's voice still commands respect. I sigh heavily.

"Well, I already hate one of my professors. He's cheeky. Doesn't like me because I'm a Holmes and I'm smarter than he is."

"He's an idiot."

Father chimes, running his hand through Dad's hair before he sits in front of him.

"That's what I told him. He says that it's impossible to have as many course credits as I do and still be in high."

Dad chuckles. Father rolls his eyes.

"See, idiot. What class is this?"

"Advanced Chem. Atkins, I believe."

Father snorts, sipping his coffee.

"I had him first year. Bloody hell, why is he still there?"

I shrug. Dad's eyes are closed. He looks peaceful before wiping his face to hid the tear that rolls down his cheek. Father calls him 'His Brave Solider.' Saying it with a fondness in his voice. Dad doesn't talk about his Army days much. I don't force the subject either. Father leans forward, kissing his forehead. I haven't expressed my fears but I know Father won't last long once Dad goes. And we sit there, long into the day, the conversation a happy one despite everything. Dad soaks it up, knowing that he won't be around to see me graduate. Somehow, he knows.

**'Love that once hung on the wall,**  
 **Use to mean something,**  
 **now it means nothing,**  
 **The echoes are gone in the hall,**  
 **but I still remember the pain of December,**  
 **Oh, there isn't one thing left here to say,**  
 **I'm sorry is too late'**

The gravestone is a dark onyx that shines in the setting sun. Right beside one with Father's name on it. The name is solid white, chiseled deep within the stone. Father just kneels with his head down, his palm pressed against John Watson's name. If he has tears, they haven't fell, nor will they.

"Promise me, Sherlock."

"What?"

"That no matter what, you stay with our daughter as long as you can."

"And if I can't."

"When we are finally together again, I'll kick your arse." He laughs at that.

"I shall do my best."

"Don't close off. Don't push her away. You're gonna need one another."

"I won't."

"Christ, I don't want this. I'm going to miss so much. I'm so angry and I'm so so scared, Sherlock."

I can hear their last conversation from where I sit at the kitchen table. Tears running down my face as I stare at into a cup of coffee. Dad's already talked to me, told me that he loved me. I couldn't force myself to stay in that room.

"Don't be scared. I'm here. I'm not going to leave."

"But I'm leaving you."

Dad fought for an hour until he closed his eyes. Fingers still locked with Father's. That's the only time I've ever heard Sherlock Holmes cry.

**'Say something I'm giving up on you,**  
 **I'll be the one of you want me to,**  
 **Anywhere I would have followed you,**  
 **Say something I'm giving up on you'**


End file.
